


Test Prep

by Enchantable



Category: The Order (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: She walks over to the book and picks it up, settling herself against the wall perpendicular to him.“The most widely used differential stain for bacteria is?”“Gram stain,” he answers.





	Test Prep

The bad dreams are not new.

 

Remembering them is.

 

She usually pushes past them and focuses on survival. But sometimes they win and she hates that. She wakes up violently with her heart pounding and her body soaked for the third time in a week. She refuses to lay in her own sweat and actually has to do her laundry. While her sheets are in the machine she decides she can’t sit in her room and pads into the kitchen for a snack. She’s expecting to see Hamish there. And Jack’s not that much of a surprise. The wildcard is Randall. Her stomach flops as she hesitates in the doorway, loathing the feeling of being an outsider in her own damn house. All six of their eyes swing to her. Something snaps in Randall and he crosses to her in a few quick strides. She stands her ground as he comes up to her toes. 

 

“It was just a dream,” she says. His eyes rove over her. She really doesn’t like it. “Randall,” she snaps his name, “it was just a dream. What’s wrong with you?” 

 

He’s starting to freak her out so she puts the back of her hand to his forehead. It’s hot. Really hot. Worse, he pushes up into the touch and his eyes close. Over his shoulder she glares at Jack and Hamish. One of them has to be better at this than she is. Randall breaths audibly. She loses her glare to look at him as he winces and then opens his eyes. They’re less disoriented but he still doesn’t look well. She drops her hand, stopping short of wringing them and she can feel the awkwardness slam into both of them. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, “that nightmare, man that was a rough one,” he looks back at Jack and Hamish and squares his shoulders, “sorry for freaking you out. I’m going back to bed now. See you in the morning!”

 

He turns and retreats, leaving her standing in the doorway. She looks at her pack mates and Jack has his face in his hands. Hamish hisses her name and jerks his head towards the stairs. Lilith knows he’s right but she definitely isn’t the person to offer someone comfort. Hamish glares and she returns the look, though she knows he’s right. She can’t go up there and pretend to be all soft and cuddly though. Randall’s the one who makes her feel better. Not the other way around. She marches up the stairs, knocks twice on the door and opens it anyway when there’s no answer. Randall will just bullshit anyway. 

 

He spends most nights on campus which is a good thing because his room is completely trashed. Not in a way that they would hear it, but in a way where everything’s bent or twisted or cracked. It’s brute strength, not like something he’s done in a panic. He’s in the corner in his closet. Or half in it anyway. The door is off the frame and propped against the wall. Deep claw marks are across it. But she focuses on him. He’s hunched over, his head between his knees and he’s breathing hard. Its the best position for this. Worse she can see his prep book. Amidst his careful highlights there’s a slash of orange going down it. He doesn’t look up at her but she sees his shoulders stiffen and his breathing hitches. He winces when she closes the door. She walks over to the book and picks it up, settling herself against the wall perpendicular to him.

 

“The most widely used differential stain for bacteria is?”

 

“Gram stain,” he answers.

 

”A colony of smooth strain bacteria is grown on a culture containing an experimental drug that cleaves nucleic acid base sequences wherever adenine is paired with ura—“ she frowns at the word, “uracil?” She nudges his shoulder with hers. He jerks up and swipes his cheeks, looking at the book.

 

“Yeah, uracil,” he confirms. She grabs the book back before he can finish reading the question, “it’s B,” he says.

 

She rolls her eyes and turns the page. Randall’s out of his ball. Slowly he shifts into a cross legged position. He leans over her, taller even when they’re sitting. She opens her mouth to tell him not to read over her shoulder but his chin just settles against her shoulder. He exhales slowly, taking those deep breaths like before. She holds herself still because if this is helping maybe she can do it, even though she hates how passive it makes her.

 

“Is having everything jumbled a part of it?” He asks. Heat floods her face. She still feels weird about the Order thing. Weird and guilty and angry. Randall’s brows knit together. “I can’t focus.”

 

“I think thats because you were tortured,” she says. He sighs like that makes sense.

 

“You got tortured,” he points out.

 

“I have experience with the Order,” she says, “for all the good that did,” he goes to move and she clamps her hand on his, “can we not make this about me? This is about you,” she says. She glances at his expression, “are you pouting?”

 

“No,” he scoffs, sitting up, his lips quirking,“I don’t pout.”

 

“It looked like you were,” she snaps, then remembers she’s supposed to be focusing on him. She can’t bring herself to apologize though and just looks down at the book in her lap. The medical jargon is annoying, between the wolf healing and the potions she remembers, it seems like such a contradiction. While she’s glaring Randall gets up and settles in front of her. She knows if he asks she’ll tell him about her order time. She realizes neither of them fully enjoy talking about themselves. Timber doesn’t support the instinct she has to run which means it’s some coward part she wishes didn’t exist. Marking the page she sets the book down. “What?”

 

“I got stuck in a well as a kid.”

 

Her eyebrows shoot up because that is not what she was expecting.

 

“Total accident, i thought something shiny was in the bottom and leaned too far over. I fell in. I was cold and scared. When i got out, there were so many people. I felt helpless,” he looks thoughtfully down, “the paramedics made me laugh. And they made me feel better. It’s why i want to be a doctor,” he scratches his neck, “it’s also why i’m not great with being trapped in spaces i can’t get out of,” he gestures around at the twisted furniture.

 

“Of course you figured out the problem,” she says, rolling her eyes. He offers a shy smile. “You’re an idiot.” He frowns, “you shouldn’t be figuring all this out on your own. Thats what i—we’re here for,” she glares as his gaze softens. “I’m not a mind reader,” she snaps.

 

“I never asked you to be,” he says.

 

“Well you should,” she lashes back, getting to her feet, “you always know when i’m hurting. I didn’t know you were in here making modern art,” he opens his mouth, “i know that’s the point!” She snaps before he can say it, “i’m not the idiot here.”

 

 She grabs the nearest thing and twists it back. She can do that at the very least. Randall gets up and she know she’s played into his hand. They’re not focusing on him like she knows they have to. She’s not a coward. She just wants to be really clear that she is not cut out for this. He leans against the desk as she twists his lamp back. 

 

“I’m not good at this,” she says flat out.

 

“What? Being psychic?”

 

“Comforting people,” she says, “i used to be. Before—“ she cuts off. The Order stabbed her in the back. She’s just opening herself up to another attack doing this. “I’m not. I don’t want to be.”

 

“I don’t want that,” Randall says, “look at all this. I didn’t want you to know. I don’t want you to coddle me because of what happened. I know how to calm myself down.” He picks up the book, “When i was in that well i recited every color i knew. I like facts.”

 

“Nerd,” she mutters, even though he has a point.

 

“Super nerd,” Randall says, “people aren’t going to believe someone as cool as you would like me,” he says. She rolls her eyes. “Quiz me?”

 

She rolls her eyes and takes the book.  He sits in front and one of her feet lands on his shoulder. She can feel the faint ridge of his scar. She presses into it with the ball of her foot and he cranes his neck to give her better access. 

 

“Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis is a disease in which scar tissue forms in the alveolar walls,” she begins, watching his reaction, “Which of the following findings would likely be detected through spirometry in a patient with IPF?” She gives the choices.

 

“B,” he says, rolling his neck as she skates her foot up it.

 

“Is your neck sore?” She asks.

 

“Kind of?” He says, “it’s itchy. I don’t think Grey liked the surgery.”

 

“Or the twisting,” she supplies.

 

“That too,” he says, “next—“ she digs her foot in harder and his head flops forward with almost a groan, “jesus, Lil.”

 

They’re all good with their feet. Shoes are the most expensive to replace so it’s not unusual for those to be the things they don’t ruin. She’s flung more sneakers over phone lines than she ever wants to admit before taking off barefoot. She refuses to flat out rub his back though. She’s not that kind of girlfriend. She does dig into his other shoulder with her other foot as she leafs through the pages of his book for more questions. 

 

“If the goal of the health communication is to have influence on individuals, families, neighborhoods, medical and social service organizations, and ultimately public health policy, they are adhering to what?” 

 

“E-ecological theory,” he says, shuddering as she digs into both sides of his neck at the same time. 

 

Maybe she can be a power drunk girlfriend.

 

“A ball starting at rest accelerates at a constant rate for 5 seconds, ultimately reaching a velocity of 200 m/s. What is the distance traveled by the ball over the time interval?”

 

He doesn’t respond immediately and she pauses, tapping the side of his neck with her foot. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Focus,” she scolds. 

 

“500m,” he says. She digs her foot in again and he makes a wordless sound.

 

“You don’t seem jumbled up to me,” she says, stilling her feet on his neck. He twists and she cocks her head to the side, waiting to see what he’s going to do, “everything’s right so far.” 

 

His hand wraps around her foot and he gets to his feet, dragging his long fingers up her leg. Just standing up reminds her how much he has on her height wise. But when he stands up he’s graceful about it in a way that makes her mouth go dry. He trails his fingers up her leg until he’s standing in front of her. She’s quizzed him before but it doesn’t end in anything resembling this. He slides his hand off her leg and braces himself on the desk, bracketing her in his arms. The only places they come close to touching are where her legs land on either side of his hips. Randall usually catches her gaze and smiles. This time it takes much, much longer than she thought for his lips to curve up. 

 

“Thanks Lil,” he says.

 

He’s close enough for her to push up and kiss him. She’s not gentle. The opposite of it but she kisses him slowly and deliberately. Like she can ground him back here just with her mouth. It’s a stupid thought, she knows that, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. Every time he kisses her she finds she likes it more, and that in itself is kind of terrifying for someone so used to having things taken away. She pulls back and opens her eyes, taking in the dark circles that stand out under his pale skin. It takes him a moment longer to open his eyes. He ducks his head forward and presses their foreheads together. She doesn’t like putting her feelings into anything, but especially not into words. The quiet between them though speaks volumes. She kisses the corner of his mouth and slides his book to the side before sliding forward. She means to get to her feet but his hands catch her and she winds up with her legs around his waist. She regards him for a moment. 

 

“It’s not that impressive,” she says, looping her arms around his shoulders, “my room,” she says, nodding her head to the door. 

 

“You sure?” He asks.

 

“I’m not sleeping on your gross floor,” she tells him, “you remember how to get there?” 

 

“Your room it is,” he says and carries her around the corner to her room. When he lays her on the bed she tightens her legs around him and pulls him with her, popping up only long enough to fling the sheets over them, “my floor’s not gross,” he says. 

 

”Really, Randall?” She sighs, “you’re in your girlfriend’s bed and you want to tell me how not gross your floor is?” 

 

“Well I do the cleaning—“ he stops, “did you say girlfriend?”

 

“No,” she says rolling on her side, “clean your ears out.” 

 

He must really be exhausted because it takes him a moment to roll over and wrap his arms around her. She’s willing to admit his floor isn’t gross but she’d rather sleep in a bed. But she knows that’s not the reason for the smile she doesn’t even have to look at to be aware of. He’s stupid transparent sometimes. It might not be the worst thing in the world. He doesn’t thank her again, which she’s glad about. The last thing she wants is for this to be a thing. 

 

“Also don’t become an artist,” she adds. 

 

“Are starving artists not your thing?” He asks with a teasing grin. 

 

“No,” she says and can’t quite resist shifting back against him before looking back at him, “but doctors might be.” 

 


End file.
